


I am as I am

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggressive Hawke, Blood Magic, Fenris and Hawke have a heart to heart, Malcolm Hawke is an ass, Reaver Hawke, Red Hawke, not Legacy DLC compliant probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris sees Hawke using his Reaver abilities for the first time and fears he's been taken in by another blood mage. He confronts him about it but doesn't get what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am as I am

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have not played the Legacy DLC! I don't actually know anything about Hawke's father, except that he was an apostate and then died before DA2. I saw...something in a fic once but have no idea if it's canon or not. So this is my made-up explanation about how in the hell Hawke can be a Reaver (since it requires a little blood magic ritual with dragon's blood).  
> ETA: Recently played Legacy. Could be compliant if you squint/don't like Malcolm.
> 
> A note: this Hawke is my aggressive, mage-disliking, glad-his-sister-got-taken-to-the-Circle, Templar-supporting jerk who is not a jerk to Fenris.

The first time Fenris saw Hawke Devour an opponent, it startled him so badly the thug he’d been exchanging blows with nearly took his arms off before he came back to himself and dispatched the man with somewhat less grace than usual. 

“You should never have fought me!” Hawke bellowed as the last of the street thugs fell at his feet. Fenris could see the feral gleam in the man’s eye and, not for the first time, wondered whether Hawke weren’t at least mildly crazy. The hazy red cloud that had been pulled from the man had dissipated, seeping down through Hawke’s dark skin, but the image was burned behind his eyelids and it was all Fenris could see when he closed his eyes to wipe at least some of the blood and sweat off his face.

“Drinks at the Hanged Man? Hawke’s buying.” Varric smiled winningly. “Aren’t you, Hawke?”

The large man laughed, always jovial after a fight, as he tied his braided hair back away from his face again. “How can I say no to you, Varric?”

“You can’t,” the dwarf replied, smoothly nesling Bianca in her cradle. “Especially not after I just saved your life. Twice.”

Hawke snorted but didn’t deny it. And it was more like three times, by Fenris’s count. He and Hawke had a similar fighting style; they’d always battled easily together, falling into a smooth, staggered rhythm of dashing forward and raining down two-handed blows upon their foes. For all that they worked well together, though, Hawke’s tunnel vision had nearly cost them the lives of their ranged support, all of them, at one point or another. Recognizing this, and realizing that Hawke wasn’t about to change, it was up to Fenris to keep a more keen eye to the rest of the battlefield. He had seen Varric take down at least three thugs who were sneaking up into Hawke’s blind spot while he, to his distaste, had been ensuring that several others didn’t sink their blades into their healer’s supremely unguarded flesh.

“Unfortunately I can’t go tonight,” the mage said, checking over Varric and Hawke for any injuries he hadn’t healed during the fight. “I’ve been away from my clinic too long.” He looked up from his manual inspection of the two and narrowed his eyes at Fenris for a moment until the elf shook his head. They had come to a mutual agreement, after very nearly coming to blows, that Anders wouldn’t examine Fenris as he did the others and, in return, Fenris would indicate whether or not he required the healer’s services, outside of remaining upright while fighting. It was a fragile detente but it was something.

“I should return home, as well.”

Varric looked positively scandalized at Fenris’s words. “And leave me to play cards with Hawke and Isabela by myself? Without Blondie there to lose to me, I’ll be fleeced for all I’m worth!”

“Come on, Fenris,” Hawke chimed in. “You need to work on your Wicked Grace anyhow.”

Fenris sighed and shuffled his feet. Hawke grinned as wide as any predator and clapped his hands together, as if that had settled things. Waving his staff in farewell, Anders disappeared down an alley that would take him back to Darktown, and the rest of them set off for the tavern.

Three pints and eight hands of Wicked Grace later (one of which he’d managed to win somehow), Fenris stretched back against the wall of the bar, hands behind his head. Isabela, after she’d lost to Fenris, declared the night a waste if she couldn’t get the new barmaid to tumble and got up to pursue her goal. Varric stayed the next hand but bowed out after Hawke won, claiming Bianca was getting lonely. Hawke, for his part, continued sitting on his side of the table, simply waving to Corff for a new ale. He seemed content to stay there with Fenris, at least so long as he was supplied with drinks.

The silence stretched between them. Hawke shifted occasionally, drinking from his tankard or looking lazily about the room. Apart from the fight where they’d met Isabela, the Hanged Man was one of the few places they could all relax.

Except tonight. Fenris couldn’t completely relax tonight. He had to know.

“Are you a blood mage?”

Hawke’s head swiveled to face him faster than any man’s head should move after more than a few ales. His eyebrows knit together and he studied Fenris for a moment before answering.

“What in blazes makes you ask that, Fenris? Have I summoned a demon I wasn’t aware of?”

Fenris shrugged, trying for a casual that he didn’t feel, the movement made awkward by his hands’ position behind his head. “Tonight, in the alley. You… pulled a man’s blood from him. It entered you. I have never seen such a thing before except--” 

_Except in Tevinter._ The unsaid words hung in the air. Fenris pushed back at the memories attempting to claw their way to the forefront of his mind. Across the table from him, Hawke groaned and let his head fall forward onto the table where he groaned again.

“Andraste’s ass, Fenris.” Hawke pushed himself off the table again, reached for his tankard, and drained the rest of the contents in one pull. Unsure how to respond, Fenris remained quiet, one eyebrow raised. In all the time he’d known the man, some three or four years now by his reckoning, Hawke had never shied away from anything. He knew an answer would come.

“The short answer is no.” Hawke looked positively disheveled as he dragged a hand down his face, looking for all the world like he was trying to drag sobriety with it.

“And the long answer?” Fenris finally moved his hands to cross them lightly over his chest.

“Maker, Fenris, do I look like a bloody mage?” the other warrior snarled, clenching one first and gesturing with the other. “Do I carry a staff and complain ceaselessly about how unfair my life is?”

Though the question faintly amused him, as neither he nor Hawke got on exceptionally well with their healer or the little Dalish witch, he recoiled slightly at the tone. Seven years ago it would have meant blows to follow, punishment for speaking out of turn and offending his master. Old habits died hard, it seemed, and he straightened his back against it, wordlessly steeling his spine, resisting. The whole affair had taken only a few seconds but Hawke had seen, and he let out his breath in a gust. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-- It’s a sensitive topic,” he said, voice gruff. Not contrite exactly, but Fenris knew it was at least sincere. Hawke had been a better friend than any of the others, never pitying him for his past or treating him like some fragile thing. For all his aggression, Hawke had, for the most part, tamped it down when speaking to Fenris. The Hawke who appeared when he was alone with Fenris was more gentle, less sure of himself, and Fenris, though he knew it to be a mistake, cherished that in a secret corner of his heart.

“It’s-- It comes _from_ blood magic,” Hawke allowed. “The ritual involves blood magic and dragon’s blood. To be honest, I’m not sure what else and I didn’t ask at the time. I was young and wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter.” He stared balefully at his empty tankard and began scratching absently at the rough wood of the table.

“My father, he did it. Said we needed better protection from the Templars than I could give with what training I had. I was fourteen and desperate to save my father and sister,” he spat, bitterness welling in his voice. Fenris sat silent, his breathing shallow, understanding dawning.

“Bethany had just showed signs of magic and we were proud and terrified. Two apostates in one family. Carver was much too young, and as I was the eldest anyway, it became my responsibility. My honor,” he snorted derisively, “to protect the family.

“My father prepared the ritual and the blood, Maker knows where he got it. I-- You drink the blood. It’s supposed to give you greater control over your body, to tap into the power of your blood so you can unleash it against your enemies.” Hawke fell quiet then, his finger still scratching at the table, the sound loud even against the cacophony of the Hanged Man and its inebriated inhabitants. Fenris couldn’t move, dared not move for fear of breaking whatever spell seemed to bind Hawke. His story was not so unlike Fenris’s own, his abilities bestowed upon him for reasons and by people outside his control. That it was blood magic rankled at Fenris, though given all the magisters used blood magic for on a daily basis, he could hardly assume it hadn’t been present at his own creation. That thought made him feel unclean, and he resisted the urge to chafe his arms, afraid to disturb Hawke.

He knew enough to recognize the look on Hawke’s face, one he was sure hung from his own eyes more often than not when he drank another bottle of wine from Danarius’s cellar, ironically using the thing that reminded him most of Tevinter to escape the memories of that place. If they hadn’t already been drinking, he’d have suggested making their way back to his mansion to do just that. Some things it was better to forget, and Hawke had been living with this one for well over a decade.

“I passed out,” Hawke continued, his voice quieter than usual but not subdued. Barely suppressed rage colored every word. “When I came to, my father brought me to the barn and demanded I show him my new power. When I couldn’t, he cuffed me and said we’d stay there until I could. All I managed to do was strain myself so hard I passed out again. While he was alive, I never manifested any of the abilities he so coveted.”

Hawke spread his arms, attempting the dangerous yet charming smile that endeared so many to him and left so many others running for their lives. It fell flat, not fully reaching his eyes. “And here we are.”

“Yes, here we are,” Fenris murmured. 

“Does it bother you, Fenris?” Hawke leaned forward, so earnest in his question. “That I am…” he gestured to himself, “as I am?”

Fenris drew his eyebrows tight together and looked down. “I-- yes, but--” He sighed. “I am hardly in a place to judge being… as I am.” He mimicked Hawke’s gesture and felt some relief when the other man’s eyes wrinkled in what Fenris knew was as close to a real smile as he was going to get that night. 

“Would you prefer I not use those skills when you are near? I do have some control over it. The bloodlust is ever present, but I can avoid pulling blood out of people’s bodies if you wish.”

Though it did in truth disturb him and he was not eager to see Hawke wield that power again, Fenris knew he could only say one thing. “Would you prefer I not use these?” The lyrium flared to life under his skin for one dazzling moment before he let it fade. “We are what we are. I would not deny you a part of yourself. You need not hold back for my sake.”

Hawke studied him for a minute, evaluating, though Fenris could see he was relieved at Fenris’s blessing to continue. “I promise I can’t summon demons,” he finally said.

Fenris’s mouth twitched in a smile. “That was to be my next question.”

Hawke’s eyes crinkled again and he held Fenris’s gaze for a heartbeat then raised his eyes and arm, yelling for Corff to bring them refills.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome! Please please, this is only my second fic. I just had to write something with these two because, UGH, I just love Fenris so much and he and my Hawke were so disgustingly happy together.


End file.
